Watermarked by Ancestries
by dutiesofcare
Summary: The Twelfth Doctor has been buying flowers for Clara for weeks now and she finally notices them.


**A/N: Cowritten with ohstarswald**

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Clara unlocked the door into her flat, tossing her keys onto the side table and letting her bags fall to the floor. She spotted a big blue box in the corner of her eye, but didn't give it too much thought.

"It's about _time_ , Clara!" a voice huffed at her as soon as she had stepped into her living room, cramped enough without the TARDIS and the Doctor shoved inside. "I've been waiting for you since _forever_."

Clara rolled her eyes, already used with this routine of his - and his incessant bantering about her school hours. "I don't think nine to four counts as _forever._ "

"It is when you never come home on time."

Clara dropped next to him on the couch. "I come home on time. You're the one who's always _early._ "

"Blame the TARDIS for that," he grunted, "She's the opposite of you. _Someone_ has to keep you from always being _late._ You should thank the TARDIS for never allowing you to miss your meetings and your classes and your brunch dates and—"

" _Maybe_ I could thank her pilot for that if he ever listened."

" –and the _shopping_ , how can one human do so much shopping? And then that time with your nan—"

"You're the one who comes here all day to cook as you please," Clara reminded him, but her teasing complaint fell on deaf ears. "It's not _my_ fault if you consume _all the food_."

He powered on, anyway. "—when you forgot your best mate from uni's birthday, remember that fiasco? Or when you were dog sitting for your neighbor?"

She mumbled beneath her breath, "Because you're obviously a cat person who couldn't deal with the constant need for attention of that _adorable_ puppy."

He still ignored her, too busy accusing her of all the things she would, and had, put him through. "—and the amount of laundry you have, how can _one_ person own that many clothes? I'm over two thousand years old, Clara, and my wardrobe consists of no more than _three_ shirts and _two_ pairs of trousers. And that's because you've hidden my plaid trousers!"

"Uh-huh," Clara agreed, although she had already given up listening to his bantering. She'd become distracted by something besides him – a dark blue vase sitting in the middle of her dining room table. She hadn't found a use for it in the past weeks, not after the Doctor had taken the liberty of wining and dining her across the universe.

The vase was vaguely square-shaped, ornamented with white lines around it – resembling the TARDIS a bit too much for her liking –, overflowing with a medley of flowers of every color in the rainbow. Each one was a different shape, but each had more petals than Clara had ever seen on any usual Earth plant.

Clara turned to the Doctor, completely disregarded whatever was coming out of his mouth. She quieted him abruptly by pressing her index finger over his lips. With her free hand, she pointed at the flowers. "Where did those come from?"

The Doctor followed the path of her finger to where it was pointing, completely oblivious to her line of thinking. "Where did what come from?"

"The _flowers_ , the ones right in front of us," Clara clarified, too ignorant to his _I'm_ _playing innocent_ game.

"Well, I don't know, you must have plenty of suitors I don't know about," he muttered, waving a hand in the air, more than ready to return to his listing of all the things he did for her.

"You _really_ must be two thousand years old if you think ' _suitor_ ' is still a relevant word. And, for the record, _you're_ the only one who's in the running."

"I'm not running for anything, I'm too busy being the president of the world."

Clara offered him a suspicious look. "If you're _too_ busy, then why do you spend the _entirety_ of your time waiting for me in my flat?!"

"Being president of the world is _dull_ , I'd rather be spending time with you. You can't blame me for running away from my _bureaucratic human_ job."

"That's sweet, but that doesn't answer my question." She partially pushed the thought to the back of her mind, although she couldn't deny the hint of a smile that appeared in the corner of her mouth.

"I already told you, I don't know! They're in _your_ flat!"

"So are you! Make yourself useful," she cried, "Doctor, you can lie to the rest of the universe but not to _me._ I can see right past this little façade of yours." She leaned away from him, keeping her balance on the edge of the couch. A small flash of bright pink that didn't belong to any of the flowers peeked out from within their leaves. "Oh, look, there's a note."

The Doctor frowned. "I _never_ write notes—" he began, but Clara was already up and headed for the table.

Clara read it quickly, recognizing the Doctor's messy scrawl that he dared to call his _handwriting_. She started to laugh at it. "What does it say?" the Doctor demanded.

"See for yourself." Clara threw the paper at him, the air draft making it fly like a paper plane. The Doctor caught it and tilted his head in an attempt of deciphering the written words.

 _Because I knew he would be late. Love, the Doctor xox._

" _He_? Who the hell is _he?"_ he angrily questioned. Not her, but the _entire universe._ Clara had to keep her laughter to herself at the sight of him and his eyebrows knitting together in _jealousy._

"He's _you,_ you stupid old man," Clara breathed, incredulous. Her face was gradually turning red from resisting her urge to scoff at him.

"He's _me?!_ That's not fair at all of me! I can't compete with my future self!" the Doctor argued, just as – if not more – bewildered as she was.

"Now you're _really_ losing it," Clara told him.

He exhaled deeply. Watermarked by his ancestry, his future self would _know_ he needed to get her new flowers. "I guess… I guess I've _forgotten_ to replace the flowers."

Clara's eyes grew wilder, were that possible. " _Replace_ them?"

"Yeah, you know," he lowered his gaze, "Someone has to make sure there's another _living, breathing thing_ here rather than just you and I."

"They've never been there before," Clara argued.

"Yes, they have been! Are you going to tell me I've been watering invisible flowers every week?"

Clara caught her chin between her index and her thumb. "How… How have I not noticed them before?"

He merely shrugged. "That's because I take _such a good care_ of your flat that you fail to provide any attention to it."

"So you're like… my caretaker?" she teased him, beaming brightly at her own joke.

"When you can't keep plants alive, yes, I am!" He was clearly annoyed, but it didn't faze Clara.

"I should give you a raise just for these," she suggested, gently nudging him between his ribs. She stroked a few of the petals of the flowers with her fingers lightly, savoring the sensation under her touch, mindful enough not to ruin them. "They're lovely. Thank you."

"Thank you? I don't even know where - or _when_ \- they came from," the Doctor admitted. "I mean, I'm sure I bought them for you eventually. I only ever buy things for you."

Clara hugged him sideways, resting her head in the middle of his chest; her ears listening to the sound of his heartbeats, her sense of smell overtaken by the scent of the flowers. "I'm flattered, I really am. But don't you mean you only ever _steal_ things for me?"

But he pretended she hadn't said anything past the praise for him, not at all willing to admit he was the biggest thief in the galaxy. "Just remember to water your flowers next time, okay?"

Clara nodded. He felt the slight shift of her head and he _knew;_ she was never going to water them, because she would never want him to stop getting her _weekly_ reminders of how much he _loved_ her and how he would bend his own rules of never publicly caring just to please her with the sweet gesture of a bouquet.

And of course, as long as he was there, she would never forget about all the things he would do for her. He would just have to add _watering plants_ to his list of chores.

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 **A/N: Any feedback is much appreciated :)**


End file.
